


bone chills

by Quixotism



Category: Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Genre: Damaged Codependent Scientists, M/M, Or are they both Monsters?, Who is the Man and Who is the Monster?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixotism/pseuds/Quixotism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor has cold hands </p><p>(and a hidden heart)</p>
            </blockquote>





	bone chills

the clock had stopped working a long time ago. The batteries had died in the snow, moisture seeping into its vulnerable cracks. He considered taking it to be repaired, but they would ask questions, would glance at him and _know_ where his heart would lie. So he pocketed it, pretended to use it for what it was meant for and as the seconds stood still, his time was forever fixed on that one moment where small fingers grasped it tightly like a lifeline in the white. His father had looked for it, searched the body for it while Victor had it clenched in his pocket. 

Like his heart, it must never be found.

* * *

Two hearts, two lungs, two sets for a modern man. Someone free of God’s design. Everything was ablaze with possibility that it made his eyes water. Or was it the fever coursing through his body, racking him with painful coughs? It did not matter. A body is simply a tool for him to use, for him to spread his abilities, bringing them to life in an empty world. 

Prometheus, my brother, he swore, I will make this world right by you. By us. He traced over the designs with chalk, with trembling pilgrim hands. Uncharted, unknown territory was being mapped out onto his floors, spilling into the marble plains. 

Then Igor appeared with a glass of whiskey and the illusion is shattered into pretty drawings that children do when they’re dreaming. Victor took the glass to take a long gulp, letting the fire race down his throat. He didn’t want to pause, didn’t want to breathe when his life is being poured out onto the floor. 

But Igor pulled his white-chalk hands away with a pitying look, which he hated, he _hated_ that, but it _works_ because Igor was _his_ like no one else was, like no one else will be (there were no more Henrys) and led him away.  


“I’m not done,” Victor protested. His hands won’t stop shaking. 

“You are done for tonight, Victor.” And Igor will not budge, stubborn strange man (why had Victor made him this way?) 

Victor could not recall the rest, but found himself in a bed too soft, too gentle for his body (nothing like snow and rock). Igor pushed him down and in a fit of desperation, Victor grabbed his arm, nails hammered into his skin. Igor watched him, quiet knowing in his eyes (when did the monster know him so well?)

“You mustn’t stop,” Victor said, breathing heavily, his life in his voice, “We _must_ do this.”

Igor smiled, a thin pale imaginative action. Smiling was still a new act for him. No one wanted the clown to smile when he was being pushed down for the act. And there were not many reasons for him to try. 

“You will be remembered, Victor,” as Igor pressed a light kiss to the man’s feverish temple, “You won’t die.”

 _But every minute I’m alive, I’m dying already_ , Victor tried to say, but the simple motion of concern pushed him down into the bed and took him to sleep.

* * *

Victor’s hands were always cold. Igor never knew why, could never understand it. Victor always wore many layers, even when the weather did not call for it. When Igor questioned him, Victor would brush it away with a laugh and a smile that could shatter bone.  


So he stopped and helped Victor out of his coats, made sure the man wore gloves. But he never felt cold when Victor’s hands were there. It seemed by design that Victor, who was so full of vibrant ideas, who lived and breathed his science and numbers as if his very lungs depended on it . . . would make people shy away with his clammy hands.

It seemed unfair, even cruel to make a man like that stand on his own. So if Victor clasped his hands for a few seconds longer, sometimes running his fingers through Igor’s hair, as if in _awe_ of everything Igor is, everything he could ever be . . . Igor would let him. 

(He could never stop Victor. It hurt to try. It hurt more when he had to)

* * *

He returned to the castle. The police had come but deemed it unsafe to touch the remains. Whatever bodies they could find, were given a decent burial. But the man . . . the Prometheus was left there, hunched in death. Victor took him from that place, to the cliffs where his own brother had been buried and laid him there. He dug the grave, made the stone . . . though there was no epitaph he could leave that did justice to the soul who was lost as quickly as he came. He laid him down, felt his body tremble in grief.  


He was not prepared to lose two brothers in one lifetime. So if tears slipped away from him, Victor was grateful no one could see. 

No one can see his heart.

* * *

Letters came and went, faithfully brought to him by Lorelei. She had a drawer full of writings that came from Victor, hiding them from Igor but he knew and never touched them. They were not _the_ letter he was waiting for. 

“Why do you care so much for this man?” She would say, “You owe him nothing. He gave you nothing.” 

He tried, many times, to explain how Victor forced the back brace on him, how he pushed Igor to his limits, how he never looked back or looked down on the man. How he pulled Igor into his world without the slightest _concern_ that his affection was misplaced. And everything he had, everything he was, had been _poured_ into Igor like he was a chalice, a receptacle for Victor and _yet_ . . . 

And yet . . . 

She would walk off, angry and upset. He would look away. He knew what he should say, but it would make the situation worse, so he lets her have the letters, lets her pretend that she was saving him from himself. But Igor was Frankenstein’s monster, a monster that gave up on him for a chance to slip in with the crowd of society’s best. A monster who fell in love with someone else and acted his part, in a different circus, one where he would not be pushed away. 

And does that not make him more monstrous?

* * *

_My dear Igor . . ._ the letter would go until Victor crumpled it up and threw his heart into the river. So no one could see.

And Igor knew. And he waited.


End file.
